Headaches
by Kawi Leonard
Summary: When Bakura is stressed, he will often yank on his hair. But a spirit of three thousand years and enough pain for a limitless amounts of lifetimes does not simply get stressed; no, it is not possible for him to simply reach a level of 'stress' and stop there. Oh, if only he could stop there. And sometimes he has to face his demons alone. Thiefshipping oneshot.


_When Bakura is stressed, he will often yank on his hair._

_But a spirit of three thousand years and enough pain for a limitless amounts of lifetimes does not simply get stressed; no, it is not possible for him to simply reach a level of 'stress' and stop there. Oh, if only he could stop there._

_If only._

* * *

Bakura stretched out silently, briefly relaxing the grasp on the book he held on his hands, and the page he had pressed down to hold his place slid free, cascading down along with hundreds others, and he cursed quietly. Twisting so he was laid on his back, he flipped the book open again in an attempt to find his place- which was a wasted effort, of course. After losing concentration, the words once again became blurry lines that Bakura couldn't read with such illiterate eyes.

He gave a sigh and threw the book down on the coffee table next to him, joining an assortment of cups and plates they should probably wash, expensive jewellery, half-finished books, and a couple of sheets of paper filled with attempts at handwriting. One half was rather pretentious lines of ink, curving elegantly and perfectly, while the other looked like a child had picked up a pen for the very first time, chewed on it, doodled a bit, and had given up.

Bakura gave another sigh that slipped through his throat and met cold air almost silently. Marik, as usual, was at work. The Egyptian had been hesitant about getting a job at first, but money wasn't something to simply be pushed aside in the matter of upholding an apartment, and besides, when the teenager had discovered that the garage had an opening spot, he hadn't been able to resist. Bakura remembered the conversation rather clearly.

* * *

"_They say, Bakura, if you love where you work, you'll never work a day in your life." Marik smiled. The Egyptian was in an oddly good mood, and was fussing around in the kitchen while Bakura lounged in an armchair, staring blankly at the TV._

"_Who the fuck says that?" He turned his head ever so slightly to speak over his shoulder so Marik could hear him._

"_People, Bakura. Maybe if you went out a little bit more you'd actually realize that humans still exist."_

_Bakura grunted in return. _

"_It's a garage! I'll be surrounded by motorbikes all day. The guy there said they needed someone who specialized in them, anyway. And I'm perfect for it. Besides, I could do up my bike there!"_

_The albino grumbled moodily, and Marik turned his head sharply._

"_What?" The teenage boy stood with his hands on his hips, and Bakura held back a snort of amusement. _

"_Your bike doesn't need doing up. It's a death trap anyway."_

"_Bakura, just because you can't ride it without throwing up doesn't give you permission to be a dick about her."_

"_Don't gender your fucking bike!"_

_Bakura felt something wet hit the back of his head, and he grabbed the cleaning rag that had been thrown at him, and threw it back with equal force._

* * *

Bakura blinked his eyes, clearing the memories from his head. Marik had applied for the job, and gotten it in an instant. Marik had gotten the phone call and didn't shut up about it ever since. That was, of course, until he had to set his alarm for six AM in the morning, and had to get up, get a shower, do his hair and actually wear clothes that weren't overly revealing for once, while Bakura continued to have a wonderful lay in and not get up till past noon. The joys of having an unemployed boyfriend.

But, that left Bakura with nothing to do the days Marik worked. Normally, he'd find some form of amusement in the Egyptian. If you tended to watch Marik for a while, he'd either get angry- which was funny in itself- or he'd do something ridiculously clumsy and get all flustered. Either option involved a rather loud emotional reaction from him. Either options were fucking hilarious.

Marik hadn't left him in the dark, however, and he finally decided to pick on Bakura's literature roots. Roots that were in fact crushed and broken seeds with no hope for life. The Albino could read in his native tongue just fine. Hieroglyphics were a breeze for him. But the English language? Bakura could speak it just fine. But reading and writing was the equivalent of asking a fish to fly.

Marik had been somewhat surprised when he found out Bakura had gotten through quite a while in the modern world without knowing how to even write the first letters of the alphabet, but Bakura simply shrugged. It had never come up too desperately, and it was surprisingly easy to get by when all he did was lay in bed and wait for Marik to come home.

But, Bakura hadn't been able to get away. Marik arrived the next day with a pile of books, pens and paper, and was determined to each him. The alphabet took long enough in itself, which involved a rather large amount of temper tantrums and giving up before Bakura could repeat it. And Bakura mocked the letters. He called them basic and refused to budge on them for a while. Marik managed to get him to write a few shaky letters before Bakura crumpled the paper and threw it out. Which invoked several more temper tantrums.

He had allowed Marik, at least, to teach him what letters looked like. Or tried. Which is exactly why he was attempting to read one of the many books he'd been left. It was a last resort, really. He couldn't find the remote and had a feeling Marik had taken it to work with him to try and get him to read one of the damn books. So he would. Or, he would try.

But, as usual, it took a very long time for him to focus on the words on the page. All he managed was a sentence and the start of another before his eyes went fuzzy and his mind blanked. The longest he'd managed was three sentences, but, of course, he'd dropped his damn book, lost his page and his focus, and he was feeling put out.

He brought a hand up to rub his temples. He glanced to see the time- numbers he had no problem with- but his eyes suddenly ached when he tried to move them, which was strange. He pulled himself up a little bit, but that only made the strange ache in his head worse. He brought his hands away from his head, the rubbing simply aggravating the pain and he paused, a tiny bit of panic entering him.

Marik wasn't home. That was the first thought that entered his mind. For someone who had spent his entire life not depending on anyone but himself, Bakura had grown a little attached and dependant on Marik. Some would call it a personality shift. Bakura, however, was a little grateful for his boyfriend. He'd spend his entire life having to control and sort everything out himself. It was nice to have some of the weight of his shoulders.

His head was playing up again. This wasn't really a rare occurrence. Bakura often had headaches that turned into migraines and forced him to sit in a completely dark room under bed covers for days on end, waiting for his head to stop aching. But this time, it was different. Marik wasn't here. The Egyptian was _always_ here when this happened.

He'd recognise the sighs in Bakura immediately. The Albino would instantly loose interest in whatever he was doing rather suddenly. Be it an attempt at reading, he'd drop the book; Watching TV, he'd instantly get up and turn away from the screen; Eating, he'd instantly put his food down. In other words, he'd instantly stop functioning and have a look of nervous dread on his face.

Marik would get the Albino a glass of water and offer it to him. Bakura would never drink it, however, and he'd simply shakily sit down on whatever was closest to him, closing his eyes and giving heavy breaths. The Egyptian wouldn't think twice before picking his boyfriend in his arms- carefully, as to not aggravate the growing pain in his head- and take him to their bedroom. He'd lay Bakura on the bed, close the bedroom door, close the curtains and switch off the light, plunging them into darkness.

After a childhood of tombs, Marik could see very well in the dark. He'd crawl over to Bakura and pull the blankets over his head, allowing him to hide in even more darkness, and the albino would lay there in silence for a few hours.

And then the screaming would start.

But Marik wasn't here. Marik wasn't here and Bakura tormented himself with the thought that suddenly he was screaming it in his head and it was just making it hurt even more. He pulled himself up and sat on the white sofa, pulling his knees up and putting his head between them, trying to chase away the pain and calm himself. But it was impossible. How could he? His head was going to fuck up again and he was alone and…

Bakura got to his feet instantly and headed towards the kitchen, but his movements were slow and clumsy and when he reached the side he gripped onto it so hard that his snowy white knuckles went almost transparent. He shakily reached for a glass and filled it with water, but his hand was trembling so much that when he turned around, it slipped from his grasp, smashing loudly on the floor. And that's what kick started it.

His eyes jammed shut as he cried out in pain, the sound of the glass smashing slashing through his ears and digging into his head like hot pokers, and his head had never _ached _more in his damn life. All he knew was that it was too light. He needed darkness.

He stumbled forward, ignoring the pain of the broken glass embedding in his feet and causing blood to ooze. He couldn't feel it. He gripped the doorway painfully, pulling himself along before he finally reached the bedroom.

He closed the door behind him but even the noise hurt. The slight click sent daggers slicing through his skull, and he whimpered. He somehow managed to make his way over towards the curtains, and with violently trembling fingers, he managed to close them. The room got darker, and it made him feel so, so much better. Next, he flicked the light off, and he was plunged into darkness, but the pain in his head was too far gone by this point. In the few seconds it had taken to walk towards the switch, his head was starting to burn.

He dragged himself on the bed, struggling to grab the sheets beneath him. But it was too late. He wasn't quick enough. He didn't even get the normal, few hours of dull pain before the screaming would start.

In the darkness, his chest began to swell with anxiety. He could see nothing but the darkness in front of him, and could feel nothing but the pain in his head. How did he even know he was alive? What if he wasn't? What if he'd died somewhere along the way? What if was destined to rot in the darkness forever?

And he screamed. He tore his jaws open and let out a scream that instantly dug into his skull like swords. He physically felt the pain sink into his pounding head like a blade, but it only made him scream more. He screamed because the pain grew too much, but his screaming was only making it hurt more. A cold sweat came over him as he writhed on the bed, completely crippled by the sheer _ache _in his head that was never ending.

And before he knew it, he felt hair in his hands. No, not hair, _his _hair. His soft, fluffy albino white locks that were slicked with sweat. And before he knew it, he was yanking. He yanked so harshly that it yanked his scalp, and it brought more harsh screams from his throat. And suddenly he felt the hair tear from his head, each individual strand slipping out of his skin and into his hands. Fear suddenly coiled inside his stomach, but the scream that was tearing through his throat suddenly grew too much, and he spluttered violently as he felt copper blood slick his throat.

And he fell silent. Not out of choice, but because he physically could not scream anymore. Bakura lay on the bed, shivering, sweating, handfuls of his own torn out hair, blood streaming down his head, blood inside his throat, blood…

And when Marik came home, he called Bakura's name as usual. When there was no response, and he saw the broken glass in the kitchen, and the bloody footprints, however, he had never moved faster in his life. And when he opened the door to their bedroom, he shut it quickly behind him, not letting the light in. Because he knew what happened. Of course he knew. Tears stung his eyes, but he couldn't let them flow. Oh, he knew what had happened..

"I'm lucky… you can see so well… in the dark."

Marik smiled softly, gently resting his hands on Bakura's sides and adjusting the Albino so he was in an easy position. Bakura was sat cross-legged on the bed with Marik behind him in an identical position, and in his hand, was a hairbrush.

"I knew growing up in a tomb would come in useful, one day." Marik's voice was barely above a whisper. He couldn't speak any louder in that moment.

Bakura didn't reply, and his head dipped a little bit.

Marik sighed softly, removing his hands from his sides and moving the hairbrush to start gently combing through Bakura's hair. The room was still completely pitch black, and Marik didn't dare try and put any form of light.

Bakura shifted a little as the brush began to pull through the tips of his hair, although his head remained a little ducked, and he was a silent as ever. It wasn't like he needed to talk. Marik could almost taste his boyfriend's emotions in the air.

Marik moved the hairbrush to the top of Bakura's head, and began to slowly brush the Albino's hair. The small balled sticks of it slipped through snowy white hair easily, and Bakura shivered a little as it grazed his scalp.

"I'm sorry."

Marik started a little bit, pausing his movements, before continuing them.

"Don't be." Marik murmured softly, focusing on the task at hand. "You don't have to be sorry for your… headaches, Bakura. You never have to be."

The albino didn't respond, and Marik worked in silence. When he'd finished brushing the most of it, he examined the abused areas. His boyfriend had really torn out a large amount of clumps from his head, and his heart twisted a little bit.

Moving the brush, he began to pull hair away from rather thick strands, lending it to the abused areas. It took him a couple of minutes, but after manipulating his parting and making a few parts less thick, he had almost managed to completely cover the wounded areas.

Bakura mumbled something, and Marik put the hairbrush down, blinking.

"Did you say something?"

"… I'm disgusting."

Another confused blink from Marik, although it swam with sympathy and affection. He wrapped his arms around his boyfriend thin waist and pulled him close to his chest, sighing softly.

"Oh, Bakura…" He moved the boy's rather long hair to one side, allowing his access to the back of his neck. He leaned down and pressed his lips against the soft, snowy skin. "You have never, ever been disgusting."

Bakura didn't answer, and Marik kissed the back of his neck, trailing soft affectionate touches to the side of his neck, before nuzzling against his throat.

"I promise you, you have always been so, so beautiful..." He kissed his throat. "After everything you've gone through, you still have to deal with these breakdowns, and you do deal with them… You take them in your stride. Sure, they're hard to deal with. But no one's ever going to blame you for how you react during them, baby."

Bakura sighed softly.

"You have been through so much, and you still are, and I will always be proud of you." Marik murmured against icy skin. "I love you."

"… I love you too, Marik."


End file.
